We drove for several miles into Oregon, and they continued with their shenanigans until pulling off the freeway. I didn’t even notice we’d arrived in one of the worst areas of Portland until they drove into the parking lot of an auto body shop called “Big Ernie’s.”
I also failed to notice a third biker had followed me through the gates. Gates which were now closing behind me.
No, because, I was Echo fucking Weston, Warrior Princess, and when I had a dragon to slay, I left my goddamned brain in my purse.
Turning off my car, I climbed out and slammed my door, storming toward the two riders as they slid off their bikes. The’d pulled off their helmets, laughing like they’d just played the best round of golf, not like they’d nearly killed me and themselves on the asphalt.
“What the hell do you two idiots think you were doing back there?” I bellowed.
Harley boy frowned, his eyes raking over me as he cocked his head. “You got a problem, gorgeous?”
“Yes, I have a problem. Are you fucking high?” I screeched. “Have you ever seen the body of someone killed in a motorcycle accident? Have you? Because I have.”
“Chill out, lady,” Crotch rocket guy said. “We were wearing helmets.”
“Ever try to play checkers with a guy whose brain’s been scrambled inside of his helmet because some drunk soccer mom blew a red light?”
“C’mon lady.”
“Don’t you ‘lady’ me, fuckwit,” I snapped back. “Seriously. What the fuck were you doing back there? Do you have a death wish?” I faced Harley boy again. “You passed me on the shoulder, dickhead, and nearly took out my side mirror. Had I not seen you, I could have made an error in judgement and weaved into your dumbass friend, killing him.”
As I continued my tirade, my hands, which had minds of their own, courtesy of my Italian mother, waived wildly in the air like a Sicilian Muppet. I can’t remember every gesture I made, but there was a lot of finger pointing, some fist waving, and possibly even a flipping of the bird at some point.
This might be a good time to point out that I’m neurodivergent. Level one on the autism spectrum disorder spectrum, which, in my case, presents in many ways, including a resistance to change and lack of order. When triggered, I can become impulsive and hyper-focused on certain specifics, causing a sort of social tunnel vision. I also tend to swear like a drunken sailor on his third day of shore leave.
“We were just having some fun,” the crotch rocket goblin grumbled.
“How much fun do you think you’d be having if you lost a leg, dumbass?” I challenged. “Or what if you broke your back, or your neck? What if you broke your dick?”
“Jesus,” Harley boy hissed then chuckled. “From broken neck to broken dick, that’s harsh.”
“You two better wipe those smiles of your face and listen to what she has to say,” a deep voice said from behind me.
Startled, I jumped and let out a quiet squeak, spinning to face him. Good god almighty, he was gorgeous. Long salt and pepper hair, a beard that begged to be touched, and deep blue eyes that looked like they could see into your soul.
“C’mon Hatch—” Crotch rocket goblin whined. “We were on a ride and having a little fuckin’ fun.”
The man shook his head. “No, Dennis, she’s right, and I don’t like what I’m seeing here, so you can leave your cut at the gate on your way out. You’re done.”
“Shit, Hatch, don’t do that,” Harley boy argued. “It’s my fault. I egged him on.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” Hatch warned.
“What the fuck, man?” Dennis argued. “I thought I was prospecting for a fucking motorcycle club, not auditioning for a motorcycle safety PSA.”
Hatch moved in. “I’ve been watching you closely over these past months, Dennis, and you haven’t added up to much in my eyes.”
“Are you seriously going to listen to this road raging bitch?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hatch growled. “You’re gone, motherfucker.”
“What can I say? I’m all broken up,” Dennis replied.
“If you don’t take off that cut and move on, I’ll show you broken up,” Hatch replied in a tone that clearly conveyed he was not making an idle threat.
Dennis smirked before removing his leather vest, holding it out, and dropping it on the ground.
“That’s the last time you get to disrespect my club and keep both lungs. If I see you anywhere near my club again, you’ll find out how serious I am.”
